by
john d. ribó
“ils veulent faire de nous des ombres dans la rue”
les femmes d’alger
as if
awakening inside a wound
the cracked dry soil
the sobs of rain
as if
that smallest part of me
I killed to survive
survived
inside the scar
the water
the spit
the blood-clotted cum
the groping hands
the hungry lips
gnawing
chewing
a simple turn of your wrist
your playful smirk
swept away
the introverted masochism
I called responsibility
“our hearts are always on the line”
he sang,
”let it ride!”